The Existentialist: Chapter 3

“Let me just start out by saying that I have lot of things to do today,” I said.
The bullets had finally stopped tip toeing across the outer regions of the building. He had finished reading.
“Whatchu mean by Jimmy Stewart?” His eyes had crinkled. For the moment I thought I was looking at old Uncle Tom himself. I stuttered…
“Um, I…he is the man who makes dreams come alive,”
“Only through death and Him do dreams take writhing bloom,”
“What the hell did you just say?” I demanded. This was pure hack talk, nothing of essence off his pallet. Yet something about those words, something…something.
“So whactchu do next?”
“What?”
“You need a hearing aid or something? I said whatchu do next, after Jimmy Stewart?”
“I went and played Chubby Checker’s records, all night. What is it to you?”
“Cuz the same thing happened to me…and a million otha niggas.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Someone of your girth, your ramshackle character, your brute indigenous heritage of chains and cotton burns…”
“What fuck you tryin’ to say?”
“I’m saying that your cock must have seismic pull. People like you simply don’t have those things happen unless it’s by preference. I don’t know, maybe you belong to some kind of sodomy of the month club…blind dates that always come through back door.
“You don’t really get it do you? People are fucked everywhere. A million head case niggas out there soul rockin’ behind liquor stores in winter, and one white boy comes around with a knack for landing eight-year-old pussy and muthafuckin’ Kronkite claws his way out the grave to interview him.”
“We’re getting off topic, none of this matters to my employer.” He lifted one massive beef clod of a hand and slammed it down upon my testicles.
“What about you?” he snarled, twisting my loins harder with soft consonant. “Do you care?”
“Jesus man, they’re not hamburgers, let go! You just crushed an ocean of a million me’s. You’re a murderer. How does it feel to have milky white genocide on your hands?”
He pulled.
“As far as I’m concerned nigga, Hitler was never this efficient.”
“Ah, God.” A small part of me shivered as another small part took enjoyment in the re-architecturing of my parts. Maybe it would resemble the Louvre when he was finished.
“How do you feel about it?” The building shook and I trembled. It sounded as if they were ramming the old fallout colossus from the outside, hoping to topple her and all her second hand tears.
“I…I…I…don’t really care about that. It happens. If there’s a hole…things are just as likely to come in as they are out. It’s math, man. Fuck! Let go of my cock or I’ll call the IRS! They’ll audit you for 1 meat javelin! You’ll rot in jail for years!”
“Math…it’s math. That’s your answer?” Twist. Maybe it would look like a children’s slinky.
“Yes! Ahhhh….and it’s life!”
“Life. Now I like that.” He let go. I was already trying to remember the number of a stone mason I once had lunch with in Hanover. I was going to order a tombstone for my cock. “RIP” it would say. “You were a solemn, law abiding member of society with no parking tickets.” I might put a symbol of Old Uncle Tom on it as well, a whispering iconograph of the murder. Robert Langdon would solve the case, sell millions of his brilliant autobiographical tomes.
He finally let go.
“Life…I’ll let you live. Now lets dream…”